1 Chapter 1
JEANETTE VAN ORDEN—known as Babe to those few of her friends who were still alive—took the opportunity to visit the restroom while her boy drew on the back of a McDonald’s place mat and finished the last of his fries. For some reason, her stomach was roiling today.
After she was finished, she pulled up her jeans and braced herself against the stall door for a minute; God, she was tired.
She didn’t have time for this, though. She stepped out of the stall, washed her hands, and hurried out. She didn’t like leaving John alone for too long.
“Mrs. Little?” One of the mothers who was attending this party with their kids stopped her.
“Yes?” That was the name she was going by this year.
“I’m Mrs. McCoy, Chad’s mom. I wanted to thank you for bringing your son to Chad’s party.”
“Thank you for inviting him.”
“Oh, I told Chad if he invited one of his classmates, he had to invite all of them. I’m a strong believer that no child should miss out on a birthday party at McDonald’s.”
Babe smiled, hoping it didn’t appear as half-hearted as she feared it might be. School started early in this district, and she’d enrolled John, hoping for some normalcy in his life. She’d spent long nights worrying over this decision. On the one hand, it could put her boy in jeopardy. On the other, he was a little boy who deserved to live a halfway normal life with friends.
The woman continued chattering about the party and what it had taken to put it together, and Babe felt her eyes begin to glaze over. She glanced to where John was seated and froze. Who was that man, talking to her boy? Although she wanted to dash across the restaurant, she’d had too much experience with situations like this.
“…and we’ll be doing the face painting soon.” Fortunately the woman had given her the perfect excuse to get to the boy.
“I’ll just go get John, then.”
“Excellent.” Mrs. McCoy turned to call to another mother, and Babe crossed to the table where her boy had been doodling. The place mat was gone.
“Sweetie, I hope you haven’t been bothering this man.”
“You’ve got a talented kid, lady.” He was a tall man with prominent ears and cool hazel eyes.
“I gave him one of my pictures, Ma.”
She thought the Big Mac she’d had earlier was going to erupt out of her stomach, and she swallowed. “May I have it back, please?”
“I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind.”
“They’re just doodles.” She gazed up into those eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing and hoped her tone didn’t come across as desperate as she felt. She had to get John out of there.
The man gave John a bill. “Would you get me an apple pie? Get something for yourself and your mom too.”
“I love apple pie! That’s my favorite!”
“Yeah? Mine too.”
“Ma likes the McDonaldland cookies, though.”
“That’s fine. You can get them for her. And you can keep the change.”
“Ma?”
She worried her lower lip, then nodded. “All right, sweetie.” She watched as her boy went to stand on line.
“The kid is smart; maybe smarter than you realize. This sketch?” He touched a pocket in his suit jacket. “There are people who would do some really bad things to you in order to get their hands on him.”
Oh God, she knew; she’d known for years. “I’m quite aware of…of my son’s intelligence. And why am I even talking to you about this?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Was he being ridiculous? This was just one more thing she’d worry about, on top of everything else.
“Listen. I’ve given him my business card. If whoever you’re running from starts breathing down your neck, call the number on it.”
Thank God John returned just then with apple pies and McDonaldland cookies, and she didn’t have to respond to that. “Sweetie, they’re going to do face painting now.”
“Okay, Ma. Thanks again, Mr. Wells. Bye.”
Wells. So that was his name.
“Bye, kid. Miss.” He put his apple pie in a pocket, gathered up his trash, and stared down at her for a long moment before he turned on his heel.
Babe stood shaking as she watched him cross to the trash container. He easily dodged the seven- and eight-year-olds running wild on the sugar high from ice cream, soda, and birthday cake.
She’d seen the way he observed the long-sleeved shirt she wore. It was too hot to wear a shirt like this in August, but she didn’t want the tattoo on her wrist to be visible. Whoever saw the long sleeves usually thought they were because she was in an abusive relationship. It didn’t matter to Babe what people who meant nothing to her thought. This man, though…he’d asked if she was in the witness protection program. What average person came up with a question like that, just because she was wearing a long-sleeved shirt? And while that wasn’t the absolute truth, it was closer to it than having hooked up with some abusive son of a bitch.
Her fingers clenched into fists. And in the inner pocket of his suit jacket he carried the folded-up place mat her son had doodled on. The same as—
